


The Handling of Business

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Relationships: Orson Krennic/Wilhuff Tarkin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

Inspiration was a fickle thing. Fleeting and meaningless. Orson had had any inspirational notions trained out of him in his apprenticeships, drained of the imagination that spurred “artists” in their craft. No, Krennic’s work now was a different thing, shaped by his own desires and by the vision set forth by the Empire. For the limitations, though, it was his. The things he made would always be his. They bore his fingerprints, the whirls and swirls of his personal handiwork. He was grateful that the Empire understood the needs of their purpose: the sharp edges were a testament to the Empire’s strength. 

And to design a space station! Not just a space station, but an orbiting platform, beyond the imagination of any Republic designer. It followed him, lurked in his dreams, gave a fire to his work that hadn’t been there before. Inspiration? Not quite. But purpose, yes.

Even so, handling the Geonosians was a tedious job. And he had to negotiate again and again with the mining corporations, which only ended with more paperwork each time. Inspiration wouldn’t suffice to get through that, no. And his patience was wearing thin. 

Orson Krennic inhaled deeply and settled into his seat, abdomen scrunching as he slouched further down. His body ached. His  _ head _ ached. There was a grime on him like he’d been working hard, a film over his consciousness like fatigue and pain accumulating. Caf wasn’t doing much--hadn’t, really, for a while. Oh, to be young, and in school…

He reached out with a gloved hand (amazing, really, to see the lines and seams of a hand, to feel the power there) and pressed a button on his desk console, speaking clearly to be heard by the computer brain. “Pull up the Tarkin Doctrine speech. Voice only.”

Without even a beep of confirmation, the speaker at the desk began to play, the clear, firm tones of Wilhuff Tarkin’s voice buzzing slightly with the feedback from the speaker. Krennic let his eyes wander, roving over the dull steel surfaces of his office, but something about the speech was off. Wrong. He frowned, sitting up again to massage a temple, and interrupted Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin in the middle of a sentence. “Add the holo-recording.”

Again, the response was near-instant: in sharp blue, the upper body of Wilhuff Tarkin appeared, hovering over Krennic’s desk and the scattered papers there. Krennic’s eyes now focused on the image, reflecting that brilliant blue, and the small points of his irises sparkled as he tracked the movements. This speech was Tarkin’s triumph, solidifying his position as Grand Moff. It had been recorded and reproduced a dozen times over, recorded in Imperial archives forever. Krennic watched the movements of Tarkin’s body, the way the man didn’t even have to glance down at his notes, how he kept his arms down in front of him but moved his torso to let his gaze sweep over his invisible listeners. 

Tarkin didn’t pander to the camera. There were no affected moments of eye contact, as if Tarkin was giving his audience the courtesy of not pretending that their conversation could be reciprocated. It was a speech, grandiose and pompous, and Krennic smiled as he considered Tarkin’s imperious proceedings.

Oh, the man was pompous, arrogant, and irritating. His speech-making was fine, but not the inspirational, stirring words of Senators Palpatine or Organa in their prime. In fact, very few of the senators made speeches any longer. Krennic hadn’t watched them as closely, and Tarkin’s speech was much more in the style he’d known since the institution of the Empire. Yes, Tarkin was the best of the form. But Krennic did not watch the speech for simple inspiration: it did not serve the purpose.

No, there was almost something else. A hint, a glimmer, in the movements of this man captured in light. Meeting Wilhuff Tarkin had been an enlightening experience, for Krennic, and the hologram was not enough. Even the words, strong and proud, were too official and clipped. Tarkin was an official, clipped sort of man, but he didn’t  _ have _ to be.

“Stop recording.” Krennic waited, watching Tarkin frozen at the end of a word. Age had worn on him. But, then, age had worn on Krennic too. He could feel it hanging on him. But it didn’t seem to hang on Tarkin.

“Call Grand Moff Tarkin. His, ah, communicator line. Not the  _ Executor _ .”

“Your rank identification is required.”

Krennic curled his lip, listing the letters and numbers that identified him--and proved he had the right to bother Wilhuff Tarkin--until at last the transmission clicked with connection. Krennic smiled as he leaned forward, awaiting the finalization of the call, until--

“Your transmission cannot be completed at this time.”

“What?” Krennic sat up in indignation, his smile fading. “There’s no flares right now, the transmission should be crystal clear.”

“Your transmission cannot be completed at this time.”

“Is it my ID? I can give it again.”

“Identification confirmed. Your transmission cannot be completed at this time.”

Krennic blinked, his chest compressing quickly with a gut punch of shock and irritation. So Tarkin had--unless he’d--no!

Tarkin had  _ refused _ his call!

Standing quickly, Krennic strode from his office, leaving the computer blinking blankly into an empty room. If nothing else, Krennic had been blessed with a workspace above Geonosis with plenty of long hallways and striking transparisteel vistas. He would vent his pique with a lap around the station, if it came to it--and stars help the officer who got in his way.


	2. Chapter 2

When the call came through, Krennic had gone down to the planet. It was a terrible place, but there were wide expanses of unbroken plateau, and the air wasn’t stale or recycled. Krennic had the space to think, considering the complaints of the Geonosians, and when his comm unit beeped, he didn’t check the identification information before he tapped the button to respond.

“Director Krennic here. Proceed.”

“Direcor Krennic.” The voice was familiar to him, layered with a smooth tone of interest that contrasted the speaker’s usual taciturn rudeness. “A pleasure to have found you.”

“Oh. Governor Tarkin.” Krennic made his voice go flat and cold, irritation showing in his face. “What do you want?”

“I missed your call the other day. I determined that I should call back to apologize.” Tarkin hummed softly, a noise that Krennic hated himself for enjoying. “You really cannot just call whenever you feel like it. I am a busy man.” 

“So am I, Governor Tarkin. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll--”

“Oh, Orson, did I offend you?” There was laughter in his tone now, a demeaning, condescending  _ amusement  _ that made Krennic gasp. Damn Tarkin. He’d always been weak to this, Orson had, always been overly sensitive--unbecoming, in the Empire. Unsuited to his Imperial position. He shoved the sensation aside, gritting his teeth.

“I have work to do, Governor.”

“I think it’s good to make you wait, on occasion. You lack discipline, Orson.”

“Listen,  _ Governor _ , you’re not in a position to ‘discipline’ me for anything!” 

“Now you’re just being deliberately hurtful.” Instead of hurt, however, Tarkin’s voice maintained its wry amusement, and Krennic bit his tongue. 

“Stop playing idiotic games and let me get back to work. I’m sorry if I disturbed you during a work shift, but--”

“Orson?” Tarkin interrupted, his voice softening. “Well. I wasn’t expecting you to apologize. That is new.”

“Governor Tarkin--”

“Please. Call me Wilhuff.”

Krennic had never hated him more than in that moment. This voice over the comm, so careful and gentle, was not Tarkin. This consideration was not Tarkin. And yet Krennic couldn’t make himself turn off the communicator; his hand remained at his side, unmoving.

“Orson, what did you need? You called me first and didn’t explain. What can I do?”

“It’s not important now. It was--a whim.”

“Your whims are not always terrible. Orson, you occasionally have fascinating insights.”

“Occasionally.” Despite himself, Krennic smiled faintly, feeling his tension ease. “At the risk of stroking your already cartoonishly large ego, Governor Tarkin, I called because I enjoyed the sound of your voice. I am a man of my pleasures, and your voice is one of them.”

“...Oh.” There was a longer moment of silence, and Orson felt his smile grow into a pleased grin as he realized that he’d managed to shut up Wilhuff Tarkin properly, for once. Relaxing, Krennic adjusted his comm unit, clearing his throat.

“One of my whims. As I said.”

“You can still be terribly petulant at times. I am sorry that I didn’t respond.”

“Well. Thank you.” Krennic nodded to himself, a pleased shiver making his skin stand up in goosebumps. “I get caught up, you know. Awash in my own imagination. And yes, you are a busy man. But still--”

“But still I make time for you.”

“See, these are the things that make me call you at random times.”

“I suppose I did set myself up for that, didn’t I,” Tarkin sighed. “Well. You are charming in your way, Orson Krennic.”

“Another compliment.”

“Even if you can be a bit needy.”

“Oh. Well, the insult cancels it out.”

“I look forward to your next power test results.”

“Oh, yes. Right.”  _ Work _ . “You’ll be informed as soon as we have conclusive data. The structure is coming along nicely.”

“Good!” Tarkin hummed his approval, shifting the comm. “Can I leave you to work without mutual interruptions again?”

“Oh, I suppose.” Krennic rolled his eyes, lifting his hand to the comm. “Goodbye, Wilhuff.”

“Goodbye, Orson.” The units beeped as the line was closed, and Krennic shivered again as he tried to come down from the rush of the conversation. Fascinating: that Tarkin could affect him from so far away. Krennic chided himself for this kind of distraction, but he couldn’t ignore Tarkin’s compliments: ‘whims’ and ‘distractions’ aside, they found some sort of mutual enjoyment together. 

His smile was irrepressible now, firmly fixed as he returned to the demands and progress of the Geonosians. So much to do, so much to attend to...but he’d managed to get an apology out of Wilhuff Tarkin. The day had already been quite profitable indeed.


End file.
